by Jaime Castle
• • •
The next day began with a pounding on the door. He grunted something incoherent and saw light pouring in through the thin veil of his eyelids. He threw his feet over the edge of the bed as another series of knocks came. Although the old chapel-house adjoined to Bridleton’s church creaked and groaned the way old houses tended to do, Whitney hadn’t slept so well in weeks.
“I’m coming!” he growled in his affected voice.
The room was small, barely space for a bed and kitchen. There were two doors. One led outside and was currently under attack and the second led to the church. Whitney’s bare feet dragged across the cold wood floor and the door creaked as he opened it.
“Father, I apologize for disturbing…” The young lady looked over Whitney’s shoulder and saw Sora lying in the bed. “Oh, I…I’m so sorry. I—”
Whitney had forgotten about that part of taking Iam’s cloth. Though, he may as well have been honest: somehow they’d managed to sleep back to back all night without ever turning over. It was a part of the story he’d leave out of his own recounting of the time he’d posed as a priest in Bridleton.
“It’s not how it appears, my daughter,” Whitney said as piously as he could manage. “After she saved my life, I decided to take her on as my apprentice. She took the bed and I the hard floor. I could do naught but accept his will.”
“Of course, how noble of you, Father…” She hesitated, brow furrowing as she tried to recollect the ridiculous name Whitney had come up with. It took a few seconds for his own groggy head to dredge it up.
“Gorenheimer,” he said.
“Yes. We are so pleased to have you here.”
“Thank you, my dear. Now, how may I help you?”
The woman’s angular face was pretty and without blemish. Her golden hair was tied up in two buns, one on each side of her head, and she dressed like a noble, something Whitney didn’t expect to see in Bridleton.
“My name is Nauriyal. When it is convenient for you, my father, Constable Darkings, desires to meet you.”
“Where can I find the good constable?”
“Good is not a term generally associated with my father,” Nauriyal said, offering a bemused smile. She motioned for Whitney to follow her a few steps outside of the threshold and pointed to a large house atop a shallow hill just beyond the perimeter of town.
“We live there,” she said. “You’re new here, and it’s nice to have such a young Father, so please don’t keep him waiting. He isn’t a patient man.”
“The will of Iam is never rushed. We enact it precisely as He means us too.”
“I would expect nothing more. Even still, it will make things far simpler.”
“Very well. I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Thank you, father.” Nauriyal bowed and Whitney promptly shut the door.
“What was that?” Sora asked.
Whitney turned around to find Sora peeking over with one eye open. “Our potential mark. If you agree.”
“‘Please don’t keep him waiting,’ to a priest of Iam?” Sora sat up and put on a wry grin. “I have a good feeling about this one.”
A short while later, Sora and Whitney stood before the tall iron gates of Constable Darkings impressive home. If Whitney knew one thing, it was: men who erect walls around their houses in towns the size of Bridleton were always of a bad sort.
He peered through the bars. It brought back memories of his last few days, first in the Glass Castle dungeon, and then in the Glass Castle dungeon again, and finally, the cultist’s hideout.
Shog, am I losing my touch?
He wondered what had come of Torsten. They hadn’t grown into best mates, but Whitney had to admit, he was kind of taking a liking to the brutish, dark-skinned man. Enough, at least, to hope he’d made it out alive.
They’ll probably sell him for ransom, he thought. Serves the giant oaf right for getting us captured.
Whitney shirked the thought, then shoved his face through the bars of Constable Darkings’s gate. “Hello!” he shouted.
After a moment, a man dressed in chainmail armor descended the steps of the mansion. This one wasn’t a conscript of the Glass army. Whitney had seen finer armor, sure—Torsten’s came to mind—but never anything like it in such an insignificant place.
“Quite a house for such a humble town,” Whitney whispered to Sora.
“Make’s Wetzel’s place seem like a barrel.”
“Just about anything makes Wetzel’s place look like a barrel.”
She shot him a look.
“No offense.”
The armored guard stopped at the base of the stairs. He had a nose so flat it looked like he’d taken a hammer straight to the face, and a scar that whitened one of his eyes.
“Who goes there?” he questioned.
“I’m the new town clergy,” Whitney replied. “Whi—uh, Gendrel Gorenheimer.”
“Who’s the knife-ear?”
“Definitely our mark,” Sora whispered as she pinched Whitney’s arm.
“Keep calm this time,” Whitney said under his breath and pushed his way in front of her. “This is Penny, my new apprentice.”
“Hah!” the one-eyed man cackled. “A Panpingese, and a woman at that?”
“The times are changing, my son. We are here by invitation of Constable Darkings. He is expecting us.”
“You wasted no time getting here did you, Father Gorenheimer? Anyon passed only days ago. We weren’t expecting the High Priest to dispatch a replacement for some time with all that’s going on in the kingdom.”
“Bridleton was in luck, Praise Iam!” Whitney performed Iam’s appraisal. Sometimes he swore he could make it in a traveling troupe. They could even perform some of his own adventures.
“I was in the next town over, helping with the aftermath of the Black Sands attack—heretics, they are.”
“Lucky for us, they sent a whole regiment to Fort Marimount up the road. They won’t dare touch us now,” the guard said as he strolled forward and opened the gate. “Follow me.”
He led them up the staircase. Whitney noted they were made of marble. The thick columns supporting the second-floor balcony were as well, with ornately carved capital at the top that belonged in upper Yarrington.
“Must be good to be the constable around here,” Whitney said.
“It’s not good to be anything around here,” the man responded.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t say it.”
The large doors swung open.
“Your apprentice should stay out here,” he said. “Because of the… you know?” He pinched his fingers at the tips of his ears.
“Is something wrong with your ears? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Whitney said. “Where I go, Penny goes.”
“The constable lost a lot at their hands. We all did.”
“The war was long ago, and I assure you Penny was not involved. Now we are all the children of Iam. Praise be his Vigilant Eye and thanks be to Him for mercy.”
The guard groaned. “If you insist.”
They entered a vast greeting hall. It wasn’t overly cluttered with trinkets but for a few pieces of well-made furniture hewn from stained mahogany.
A curved staircase lined by a wooden railing carved like fruited vines led to the second floor. Whitney knew the constable’s sleeping quarters would be up there—as well as his closet. Public affairs at the ground level, private above, servant’s quarters buried. That was the way Yarrington nobles designed their homes and it was no different here. Whitney didn’t even have to spot the portrait of the constable hung above the stairs to know it was there.
He took it all in, memorizing everything, the location of every guard, the places where the constable might have locked up his more prized possessions.
“You're the new priest?” Constable Darkings said, appearing as if from thin air. Whitney would have mistaken the voice for a woman’s had he not seen him. The middle-age
d man wore a satin tunic, crimson with a bit of gold flair on the collar that drew attention away from his rotund belly and jowls. An exquisite piece fit for the royal court, and with the pants and belt to match.
“Gendrel Gorenheimer,” Whitney said, bowing his head.
“Constable Bartholomew Darkings,” he said, licking his lips. “The church allows slaves now?”
Whitney heard a hard exhalation but didn’t bother to look back at Sora.
“This is Penny, my apprentice.”
“A woman?” He laughed. “And a knife-ear too? Iam’s lost his yigging mind, has he?”
“Are we not all created equal beneath his all-seeing eye?”
“Not in my experience.”
“The High Priest has begun to see things differently”
Darkings barely let him finish before he scoffed. “I couldn’t care less about those pansies in the capital. I invited you here to make sure you understand how things work out here.” He stopped at the base of the stairs, smiled, and smoothed his pants. “Care for a drink?”
He snapped his fingers in the direction of a nearby doorway and a servant hurried out carrying a cask on a silver platter. Again, Whitney heard Sora make a dissatisfied noise. The servant was a Panpingese boy, barely more than ten.
Darkings filled and offered it, but Whitney raised his hand in polite refusal.
“The love and mercy of Iam are not for sale, Constable.”
“Cut the yig-and-shog. We both know you’re here for the same thing I am. I collect taxes and you collect tithe. I have a house, free of charge; as do you. As long as you and the church don’t stick your fingers into my coffers, I’ll leave yours be as well.”
“I think you misunderstand my motives, Constable Darkings. I’m here for the good of the people.”
Darkings’s chortle echoed throughout the room. “It’s your lie, priest. Tell it how you want to.” He stepped in front of Whitney and appraised his robes with two fingers.
“Shotty things, these,” he said. “There’s a tailor on the western side, tell him I said to have new ones made for you on my coin. He’ll make them white as snow.”
Whitney glanced to Sora and back. “I think I’ll kindly pass on your offer. I prefer to wear the mud of the world over my shoulders.”
Darkings moved forward until Whitney could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You’re new here,” he whispered. “You’d do well to play nice. It would be a shame for Bridleton to lose a second father so soon.”
“Indeed,” Whitney said.
“All I ask is that you keep church business within the walls of your chapel and stay out of my way. These are simple folk who have never left these fields. They wouldn’t know Yarrington from Westvale. This place…” he raised both hands and gestured to his grand hall, “…might as well be the Glass Castle itself and I like it that way. You play your cards right, you can have a place just like it.”
Whitney circled his eye and bowed. “Under the watchful eye of Iam, I have no intention of interfering with your matters of business, Mr. Darkings. Though I needn’t a shelter of this… grandeur.”
“Good enough for me.”
Whitney shifted his focus upstairs. With the right play, he could pilfer an outfit and they could be on their way before sundown. If Darkings would wear his current outfit to simply meet with a man of the cloth, Whitney could only imagine what finery he dressed in for formal events. He cleared his throat. “May I use your facilities?”
“You can use your own facilities, priest,” Darkings replied. “Our time here is concluded.” He turned to his daughter, who Whitney hadn’t even realized was standing beside them. “Nauriyal, escort the father and his apprentice back to their hovel.”
“Of course, daddy,” she said, curtsying.
It’s never easy, Whitney thought to himself as they were led outside. Why can’t it ever be easy?
When they’d cleared the front doors, Nauriyal placed her hand on Whitney’s arm. “I’m sorry about him. He can be a bit extreme at times. I do hope you won’t hold it against me, Father?” She smiled bashfully.
“I condemn no child for the sins of their parents. You are always welcome in the house of Iam.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Whitney stopped and took her hand. “You never have to thank me.”
Whitney felt Sora’s elbow jab against his ribs and quickly released the young woman’s hand.
“Yes, yes, thank you, Nauriyal,” he said, clearing his throat. “I will remember your kindness.”
A pair of the constable’s guards opened the iron gate. It slammed shut the moment Whitney and Sora were outside. Nauriyal remained behind the bars, staring.
They walked a short distance before Sora whispered, “Priests don’t get flirty. Don’t screw this up.”
“I wasn’t flirting, I was being polite.”
“I know what your flirting looks like. It’s painful.”
“Trust me, if I ever flirted with you, you’d be swooning.”
“Oh really? ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ Some master thief you are.”
“Worth a shot,” Whitney said. “Lesson two: always start a job by testing the route of least resistance, then plan accordingly. Consider this on the job training.”
“Oh, making me endure the insults of those bigots was training?”
“Now that I’ve got the lay of the land, it won’t be hard to return tonight.”
“You did see how many guards there were, right?”
“Four inside and at least two outside,” Whitney answered. “Your point?”
“That’s a contingent.”
“I’ve snuck past twenty wizards, broken out of castle dungeons, and robbed a dragon of his gold. You think a handful of small-town thugs is going to stop me?”
“Dragons? Now I know you’re mad. They’ve been extinct longer than we’ve been alive.”
“You will see how mad I am when I return this evening wearing the finest silks in the region.”
Whitney rounded the Bridleton streets toward the ramshackle cottage beside the church when a high scream echoed across the town square.
“Father! Father! Please come quick!”
Whitney turned to see a boy no older than ten charging toward them. His face was streaked with red.
“My f-f-fath-f-f-fath—”
“Slow down,” Sora said, kneeling to meet the child eye-to-eye.
The boy froze momentarily as he regarded Sora’s ears, then he drew a deep breath. “My father was b-b-bit by a wolf,” he said. “P-please come help.”
“Wolf?” Sora asked. “This close to town?”
They followed the boy toward a ranch at the edge of town. He ducked under the rickety wooden fence. Whitney nearly tumbled over the top in his heavy robes, but Sora caught him.
A herd of cattle clustered by the farmhouse, but the closer they got Whitney could make out the low groans of the man stolen amidst the tall grass over.
“I’ve found help, da da,” the boy said as he kneeled beside him. “Don’t worry.”
The rancher held a wound on his side to keep the blood from gushing, but his hand wasn’t nearly large enough. Four deep cuts wrapped his torso, rent by the claws of no normal sized wolf. Had the beast extended its claws even a fraction more and the man’s intestines would be forcing their way out.
“This wasn’t done by a normal wolf,” Whitney said, remembering his and Torsten’s encounter in the woods.
“I s-saw it. It was huge!” the boy said.
“Redstar,” Whitney whispered and shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing. Careful with him,” Whitney said to the boy. “Don’t agitate the wound.”
“What do we do, Father?”
“That doesn’t look like it came from a wolf,” Sora whispered in Whitney’s ear. “And it’s too late in the season for bears.”
“It was neither.”
“So, the boy was seeing things?”
“Dire wolf,”
Whitney said.
“There’s no way. They don’t come this far south… ever.”
“Tell that to the ones that attacked me and the knight just a couple of days past.”
The man released a hair-raising cry and kicked his legs. The boy sprung at Whitney and shook him. “Please, Father, you have to help him!”
Whitney finally felt a tinge bad for pretending he was a priest. Earning the cloth of Iam meant some training in the healing arts, but Whitney knew about as much about that as his bumpkin father. The rancher’s eyes were closed, his breathing was shallow, and sweat beaded on his forehead even though it was mid-autumn. Even looking at the bubbling, bloody gashes across the man’s ribs made Whitney’s stomach turn.
“Fever has already set in,” Sora said.
“What am I supposed to do?” Whitney whispered, turning himself toward her and away from the boy. “I’m no priest, much less a healer.”
“Please, Father. Would you pray for Iam to heal him?” The boy hugged his father, tears freely flowing again.
“Take the boy over there,” Sora said. “Pray the most believable prayer you’ve ever prayed. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“This is not why we are he—”
“So, you want to let this little boy’s father die when we might be able to help?”
Whitney surveyed the boy. A part of him felt he’d be better off without a father forcing him to stay at the farm like his own always wanted. Of course, Whitney got the chance to choose to be orphaned and not be made one.
“Where’s your mother?” Whitney asked.
“He’s all I got.” He wiped snot from his nose. “Please, you gotta help him.”
“Oh, shogging exile.” Whitney kicked the dirt. The boy looked stunned at the fake priest’s language. “Okay, come over here with me and let my apprentice examine him. She’s an expert on the healing arts.”
He wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulder and led him away so his back was turned to Sora. He instructed the boy to close his eyes tight and believe really hard. As Whitney muttered what he knew must have sounded like incoherent religious jargon, he glanced back and watched Sora pull her dagger from its sheath. The dying man didn’t move, barely breathed. She grabbed hold of the dagger’s blade and winced, this time drawing far more blood than she had when she made fire.
